James Whitcomb Riley was dubbed “The Hoosier Poet.” The most popular writer of his era, he was far more than a rustic, homespun bumpkin who wrote in dialect. Riley’s poetry was part of my heritage, and Miss Dowell, our fourth-grade teacher, took us to visit his boyhood home in Greenfield. My generation and my parents’ and grandparents’ generations could recite many of his poems. Fine poets do more than just string pretty words together: they discern our hearts.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The October day when Vicki, several cousins and I made a pilgrimage back to past time was a perfect autumn “Riley” day. After lunch we visited a cemetery in Frankfort and another one connected with some of Cousin Joan Kelly’s people. Then we drove along country roads, pointed to the True North of the Kellys, The Old Home Place that our pioneer ancestors settled in 1830 and that my mother’s and grandfather’s generations revered. Under the azure October sky, the fields lay golden. The house and the round barn that was famous in its time are gone now, but next to the farmer’s soybean field we drove up a track to the top of a knoll to where the Old Ones lie.
Vicki handed her clipboard to Cousin Mike Kelly’s fifteen-year-old grandson and gave him the task of locating Kelly graves in the cemetery that had actually been started by the Brandon family, neighbors of the Kellys. Having been to the cemetery several times, I pushed my Rollator to the grave of one of my ancestors, sat and watched the others and ruminated on the day and the Old Ones.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” — Ecclesiastes
My mother’s people arrived when there were still Indians present, carved a farm out of the wilderness, lived and loved here, and the women bore many children. Their time passed . . . long ago . . . long ago . . . Four generations of us were there that day, and it is satisfying to know that in years to come there will be a few who will know their history and honor them.
Rachel Field wrote this lovely poem that Dan Kendall sent to me. It was also set to music and can be heard on the Internet. Dan is also a fellow appreciator of Riley’s poetry. I cannot have too much poetry in my life.
Something told the wild geese,
It was time to go,
Though the fields lay golden,
Something whispered “snow.”
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries luster glossed,
But beneath warm feathers,
Something cautioned frost.
All the sagging orchards,
Steamed with amber spice.
But each wild breast stiffened,
At remembered frost.
Something told the wild geese,
It was time to fly.
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.
I sense the coming frost and know that winter approaches. However, unlike the wild geese, I won’t desert Indiana for a warmer clime. Just as each season of the wild geese has its own imperative, each season of my living has had its own delicious flavor: the effervescent champagne of springtime, the brandy-hot passion of summer, the mellow honey mead of autumn and the full-bodied wine of remembrance that warms the wintertime of my being. I shall remain here in our cozy home with Bill . . . and be content. wclarke@comcast.net